


Bring it back, bring it back

by quixoticquest



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 90s queen, Alternate Timelines, Angst, Character Death Fix, Fix-It, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Roger POV, Soulmates, What Could Have Been, Wishes, life lessons sort of, roger has zero practice being gay, roger is old and sad, the major character death is freddie and it doesn't happen in the story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-09-25 03:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17113430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixoticquest/pseuds/quixoticquest
Summary: Jim Hutton thought Roger Taylor and Freddie Mercury were clearly soulmates. A nice enough sentiment, but it sits heavily with Roger, and he wonders if maybe he could have prevented all the hurt and devastation from the last few years, had he listened better to the quiet part of himself that loved Freddie with all his heart.Roger gets a chance to have done exactly that when he makes a wish at the Prime Meridian in Greenwich.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Who fucking thought I'd be here writing RPF in 2018. I sure didn't. 
> 
> Not that it matters, but I sort of justify this ship through the movie (even though a lot of the content here is based on real life), and the personas they presented as performers. Not to mention, I don't don't really ship them in real life, and I'd never bring this out into the real world, I just thought it was interesting how Jim Hutton described their relationship.
> 
> ALSO, I did my best to make this British accurate, but ultimately I did not have it britpicked so don't hesitate to tear me apart in the comments if something is wrong. Please enjoy.

Early November, 1993. Blue skies and sunshine reigned supreme over the Old Royal Observatory in Greenwich, though the breeze blew crisp and fresh, the only way it could in mild autumn. Despite the more than remarkable guests spending the afternoon there, a Tuesday and sheer luck combined to make the destination less popular than usual. 

To Roger, it was all incredibly stifling. 

“You’re up and moving,” Brian mentioned with mild enthusiasm. “I’m surprised I didn’t bore you to pieces. Thought I might hear you snoring from the second row.”

“I stayed awake. Doesn’t mean I understood a goddamn thing,” Roger huffed, as good-naturedly as he could manage.There had been a small gathering of intellectuals in various fields of astronomy for a talk at the observatory that day. Brian had been invited to say a few words, for what reason, Roger figured was more star power than anything that actually had to do with astronomy. But it was Brian’s first foray into astrophysics since the seventies, and no one was prepared to stop the man from participating. Even if he was far more excited than any forty-six year old deserved to be. 

Roger had been invited, along with some other friends and family, and even though this was as far from his scene as any event could be, he decided it wouldn’t be excruciating, and came along. Thought maybe it would distract him from something his drum kit just couldn’t really help.

“You’re a bit more than tired, aren’t you?” Brian asked, quiet while the space doctors and astronaut-wannabes chattered on behind him. There was far too much knowing in his voice.

Itching for a cigarette now more than ever, Roger nodded, and said simply, “It’s that time of the year.” The second, to be precise, of several dreadful Novembers that would encompass the rest of his life.

No one in the room understood more than Brian, but even now, it was different. Brian could be worse off than Roger sometimes, but he had his stars to distract him today, even if the rest of the month went by miserably. Roger had fallen face first into years-old grief weeks ago. 

He was fine, most of the year. His tried and true dark night of the soul had come and gone when  _ it _ actually happened, but still reared its ugly head, every now and again. Fall was particularly bad; two big, two months apart. September fifth still wasn’t far enough away and November twenty-fourth was approaching at alarming speed. After last year, Roger thought it would be better, but each time he remembered, it all felt as fresh as the news on that first day.

Even now, his grief felt more amplified, as if it could ever be possible. Pounding against his chest like intense bass in a strange, lonely club, rocking the floor beneath him. Perhaps it was because he had spoken to Jim Hutton not even a week ago. A living reminder, no doubt, but this time with a bombshell disguised as some kind of comfort.

“You know, Roger,” Jim had begun in that lilting way of his, “there was always something about you.”

They were at a party in the West End, and Roger hadn’t expected to see Jim. He had stopped for a quick chat, the least he could do. Now though, with god knows how many drinks over the past few hours, the drummer’s mind veered anxiously (and perhaps not very politely or forward-thinking) toward a come-on.

“The way you were with him,” Jim went on, when Roger didn’t reply right away. “So fun and effortless. Different from how I loved him.”

“Well we were mates,” Roger answered, puffing out a laugh incredulously. Thankful his thoughts had been playing tricks on him, though the statement was peculiar all the same. “Twenty years worth, I’d hope it was effortless.”

“Yes, I know.” Jim chuckled, and looked down into his half-empty drink. “But I think, if things had been different - I s’pose, if you had been different - you two could have been soulmates.”

Of all the conclusions to strike Roger dumb. It was something he had never thought about before. How could he have? That was a term you reserved for someone terribly special. Someone, he imagined, you intended to make love to. In 1977 he thought he’d found his soulmate in Dominique, but that had all gone tits up, and fancied he’d gotten it right this time with Debbie. Could it have been that he had been completely wrong in the first place?

The thought sat heavily with Roger, even now.  _ Soulmates _ .  _ If he had been different _ . He knew exactly what kind of different Jim had been referring to. With two women and three children of his very own, it was preposterous to think otherwise.

And yet, when Roger’s mind began to wander in those quiet moments, and he remembered days long gone...

“I have to step away,” Brian mentioned, already doing just that, wavering within earshot. “Five minutes, and then we can head to dinner, yeah?”

“Alright.” Roger nodded him away, off to fraternize with the astronomers, a towering fool with a mane of ridiculous curls alongside mostly clean-cut hairstyles.

Not wanting to look lost, or linger where he didn’t actually give a shit, Roger pushed his sunglasses up his nose and stepped outside, where the meager chill did its best to refresh his tired face, and failed. He still felt old, distracted - and maybe like he had missed out on something crucially important as well.

Even with the Maritime Museum in proximity, Greenwich Park boasted a whole lot of useless. The Royal Observatory was apparently fit for lectures, but no actual observing these days. Roger had heard that the Prime Meridian line was not even accurate, but Greenwich still lauded it as prominently as any other monument. Roger walked the brass strip like a tightrope with his hands in the pockets of his expensive wool coat, traversing the border of two vast hemispheres unceremoniously.

_ If things had been different _ . So nondescript, and yet to Roger, it could only mean one thing. 

He remembered the stage, where energy crackled against his fingertips, with every smash of cymbals while a siren song fit for thousands ripped across the microphone. Dark eyes shining under the unforgiving lights, aimed over his drums and gone in the next moment to please a devoted, hungry crowd. Sharing a song, a legacy, a moment in history with the best voice in the entire world.

He remembered before that came to be. Before all of this, before awards sat gathering dust on his shelves, and before anyone had been acquainted with the word  _ posthumous _ . The stall at Kensington Market where they scrounged for every pound. And still, it was better than the school grind. In those quiet, vast moments between customers. The old, worn clothes kept their secrets. Meanwhile the two of them laughed, babbled, and sang, and everything in between. 

If Roger could reach into that mulish blond twenty-year-old’s mind, he thought, maybe there was something he had overlooked. Something swimming behind his mind’s eye at the time, that had stayed buried and dormant for the next two decades. Something hiding under the friendly affection and casual intimacy. Something someone else was far more willing to venture out of his comfort zone for than he.

And then what? What if he had acted against expectations? The possibilities were endless, and confounding. Roger was almost too self-aware to bear imagining them, but he couldn’t help himself. It had been on his mind all week.

There would have been no diagnosis. No waning off into an early, aching end. He could have stopped the promiscuity before it had even begun, and then there would be no media scrutiny, hounding at the doors to their lives. Roger could have prevented the endless partners, and the more devastating drugs, and the pain. Everything could have been so much better, if he hadn’t had his head in his arse.

And he hadn’t even considered it. A kind man grieving the love of his life had planted the idea. Roger could have prevented that hurt too. Everything would have changed, yet he couldn’t help but think, they would all be the better for it.

It was all so ludicrous to think, but it didn’t stop Roger from spreading his feet on the cobblestones, one foot in either hemisphere, so to speak. They said you ought to make a wish at the Prime Meridian, and Roger was just beside himself enough to indulge the fairy tale. Eyes shut against the seeping light of the sun, he tossed a hapless wish into the ether. 

That things had been different. For health, safety, and security - not necessarily his own. And of course, that he had been different himself.

Only the first week of November and Roger was already suffering dramatics. He opened his eyes to the pleasant landscape spread out before him, and watched as the lecturers and their listeners spilled out of the observatory. Brian approached hand-in-hand with Anita, looking eager to be away from the public space as long as his role had been fulfilled.

“You ready?” Brian asked, nodding off toward their limousine. “I asked some of the lot to join us, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Just as long as all this space theory doesn’t interfere with my being fed,” Roger answered, managing to pull together a smile now. Debbie would be meeting him at the restaurant anyway, so at the very least, he’d have someone to speak with on less astronomical subjects. 

They indulged small talk for as long as it took to get out of Greenwich Park, but London traffic was as abysmal as ever at this hour. In the meantime, the Bangles serenaded them from the radio, singing of heartbeat and flames. Roger found himself stifling a yawn behind the sleeve of his coat more than once.

“Why don’t you close your eyes, Rog?” Brian offered, knocking against his knee on the other side of the limo. “After all that blathering, you’ve earned it.”

“If I close my eyes, I’ll  _ definitely _ fall asleep.”

“That’s alright. Who’d you prefer wake you? Me or Deb?”

Roger laughed a little. “You can sing me awake. She’ll just smack me.”

Brian chuckled in kind, the sad quality leaving his eyes for a moment. “Understood.”

With that, Roger allowed himself to tilt his head back against the rest, and get comfortable. It was so easy to get worn out these days, and sleep always came quickly when he wasn’t busy. Sometimes he felt like his old dad, unable to make it through the day without a snooze. 

The murmur of Brian and Anita’s conversation disappeared under the haze of his nap, and for a while, Roger drifted out and away from the cozy limousine.

A moment later they came to a jerky brake, and his eyes flew open. Roger half-expected to peer out the window and gaze into the marching lines of traffic, hear some profanity swapped between drivers or - god forbid - an accident. 

He was surprised to find himself having to push up to sit, lying sideways. Maybe the harsh stop had sent him sprawling onto the leather seat.

But Roger did not find leather under his splayed hands. Instead, there was linen, rippling between his fingers, wrinkled and white. The interior of the limo had evaporated altogether, and instead he found himself in a bedroom he had never seen before in his entire life. No; maybe familiar, lingering on the tip of his tongue. Either way, it didn’t change the fact that Roger was in a completely different place from where he had fallen asleep.

As he rose, the sheets fell away from his body, revealing that his coat and suit were gone as well. In their wake, a green cotton pajama set. Had he been brought into someone’s home because he hadn’t woken up? Had the observatory been a dream? Everything had been so vivid a second ago, an hour ago.

_ “Say my name, sun shines through the rain.” _

A soft voice drifted into the room, stealing Roger’s attention for the first time. The dull roar of water against tile arrived with it. 

_ “A whole life, so lonely, and then come and ease the pain.” _

Roger’s body seemed to be working faster than his mind, sending him scrambling to his bare feet, wrenching the sheets away. The words were utterly gentle, gossamer, drifting in breathy cadences. The kind Roger could pick out among hundreds.

_ “Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling _ .”

He shuffled out of the bedroom, trailing against the walls as he followed the echo of bathroom reverberation. The pounding of his heart left Roger somehow grounded, physical, certain that this was real.

_ “Do you feel my heart beating, do you understand?” _

The door stood open just a crack, allowing heavy steam to billow out into the narrow hallway. Roger pushed it open, heedless of privacy that might have gripped him under normal circumstances. A figure wavered behind a translucent, foggy curtain, swaying to an imagined rhythm.

_ “Do you feel the same? Am I only dreaming…” _

The curtain couldn’t stop Roger either, and as every suspicion rose to a raucous head in his trembling limbs, he shoved the plastic aside. The once shrouded figure jumped, soap and sponge nearly toppling out of his hands.

“Don’t startle me like that! There are nicer ways to intrude on a man in the shower!”

Freddie stared at Roger accusingly, arms cinched up against his dripping body as if to shield an attack. Roger stared in kind, unable to move, or breathe, or speak. The showerhead pelted his face and shirt with a warm mist, leaving the cotton clinging to his skin damply. He thought he might get sent careening back in space, or collapse to the floor.

And could anyone blame him? None other than Freddie fucking Mercury stood centimeters away from him, in the grand old year of 1993. Taking a bloody shower with lavender soap, while Roger slept not a room away in his jammies. No, it couldn’t be 1993. At the very least, it was a weird, mean dream on behalf of the universe, and Brian would wake him up at any moment. 

“Rog?” Freddie’s alarmingly real face fell from shock to concern right quick, his shoulders dropping the longer Roger kept still and silent. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

When Roger didn’t reply, Freddie, in all his naked glory, stepped over the lip of the tub, pulling the towel hanging up with him. Short, thick hair ran inky black with water, silver at the edges. As if it were of any important, Roger noticed it was in need of a trim. Freddie’s face was clean shaven, but not gaunt, like the last time Roger had seen him. In fact, none of him was gaunt. Tan flesh pulled across a full form, soft in all the areas appropriate for a middle-aged man (as if Roger could talk). For all intents and purposes, healthy, and well.

“If you don’t say something soon, then you’ll startle me all over again!”

“Freddie,” Roger choked, almost fearing his own voice would spell the end of it. 

Freddie’s face softened again, his teeth peeking from between his lips. “Did you have a nightmare?” he asked, lifting his hand to Roger’s cheek. A spark radiated from the warm, damp palm and right into Roger’s face, his skull, his bones. He could almost feel every ridge, every fingerprint.

That was all he needed to do him in.

“Yes,” he breathed, letting every single memory of the last two years drift away from him, if just for this moment. “A very bad one.”

“Oh, poor thing,” Freddie tutted sympathetically, taking Roger’s face in both his hands now. “Will talking about it make you feel better?”

Roger shook his head, with limited movement. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Please don’t fret, dear. You’re alright now.” A brief nod, and Freddie tilted forward. Even as the distance between them disappeared, and his intentions became clear, the last thing Roger expected was the press of velvet lips against his own. As if it were the simplest thing in the world. Chaste, comforting, and tangible.

“You’re with me now, everything’s fine.” Freddie pulled away and touched their foreheads together, gazing with more affection than Roger had ever felt from the man in front of him.

Roger remembered the Prime Meridian, and his wish. As if that were the only explanation for what was happening right now, however illogical. 

Reason or not, it was the last he dared to think of anything that had happened up until this point, in this very moment.

“Yes, you’re right.” Knowing he had waited long enough, Roger felt no hesitation as his arms came around Freddie’s, and he leaned forward for another kiss. As easily as he’d kiss anyone important enough to him. 

Freddie met him sweetly, thumbs brushing in soothing circles across Roger’s cheekbones as their mouths slipped together. Roger felt as if his chest might burst, and after a moment of near-lightheadedness, he realized he needed air, and broke away.

He kissed Freddie Mercury. Not as a joke, or for fun. It was real and tender and Roger became inexplicable enamored, his hands trailing up the body of a  _ man _ , against the sopping hair of a  _ man _ , watching that man hold all his attention in the world.

“I love you, Fred,” Roger whispered, since he’d never thought to before.

Freddie chuckled. “Well I’d hope so, darling, or we’d have utterly wasted the last twenty years of our lives.”

They met again, lips gliding a little more fervently this time. Roger was trying his damnedest not to smile, or do anything to mar their kiss. It couldn’t quite stop him from nudging Freddie back toward the foggy shower, though.

“Roger, you’ll get your pajamas wet,” Freddie stated, teeth bumping against Roger’s mouth.

“As if I fucking care.” Roger hiked his leg over the tub, and the warm spray hit his hair, seeping into his clothes. Freddie giggled uproariously, and Roger was close to matching as they clutched at each other, humming into wet, honeyed kisses as the water grew tepid.

Roger thanked god for the spray. It brought Freddie back to him, and hid the tears that rolled down his face.

***

“My  _ god _ , darling, I haven’t felt so young in years. If I were a doctor I’d prescribe bathroom ravishments daily to blokes over forty.”

Roger smiled - though he wasn’t sure if he’d ever stopped, really. His pajamas had been wrung out and tossed in the laundry, and now he sat naked as the day he was born in the bed where he woke up, watching Freddie dance around from closet to bureau, his arse on full display. Catching each other indecent had never been a big deal in their glory days, but Roger didn’t think they’d have ever found themselves comfortable lounging bare in each others’ company.

“I must not ravish you enough, then,” he replied, feeling absurd and pleased with himself at the same time. After all, he had just gotten here, for all intents and purposes, and didn’t know any better.

“No no no no no,” Freddie clucked, falling from high to low in a single octave to express his disagreement. How Roger had missed that voice ringing in his ears, straight from the source. The vinyls didn’t hold a candle. “We’ve just fallen into routine, I’m afraid. It happens to men our age. We become so terribly normal that you don’t even know what you’re missing!” He hopped into a pair of briefs and a vest and began an arduous search for a proper top.

“Then I suppose,” Roger went on, shuffling to his knees on the slippery sheets, “we have to break our routine.” Whatever that was! He felt positively electric. Same as Fred said, hadn’t felt so young in years. And he was prepared to channel every single year he had spent not loving Freddie Mercury into this second chance.

“Roger Taylor, what has gotten into you?” Freddie whipped over his shoulder and stalked back to the bed, over the small distance. Gel held his hair in perfect place. It was fuller than the last time Roger had seen. “I know you’re an animal in your own right but you’re being absolutely outrageous. Should I be concerned about this nightmare of yours?”

Feeling a smirk twitch onto his face, Roger curled his hands around the straps of Freddie’s wife beater, yanking himself forward on the bed. Freddie stood his ground, looking awfully smug despite his efforts to keep some semblance of sternness.

“No, you shouldn’t,” Roger said, tilting his chin invitingly. “In fact, I plan to banish it from my mind completely, and I was hoping you’d help.” Before Freddie could argue or ask any further questions about the horrible memory, Roger pulled one final time and sent the man toppling over him with a yelp. Sure enough, Fred was out of his underwear in no time.

If what happened in the shower was ravishment (which was a good deal of snogging and groping until the water turned icy enough to force them out in search of warmth) then Roger didn’t know what to call this that followed. Any apprehension about  _ uncharted territory  _ so to speak, vanished as Freddie laid himself out all of his own accord, and guided Roger for no other reason than because it pleased him, and he wanted to. He couldn’t have possibly known he was giving direction, but Roger accepted it gratefully, and tried not to be too obvious about channeling his few experiments with anal from when he was rather promiscuous himself. 

When they were in the throes of it, Freddie turned out to be anything but a pillow princess. Rather he was a queen to be ironic and coy about it. Even during his miserable considerations, sex was not something Roger had ever considered with Freddie. He was glad, because nothing compared to this. Freddie was hot, and reactive, and palpable, and in no time Roger reached a climax unlike any other.

“Will you tell me about everything that’s happened?” Roger murmured, face pressed against Freddie’s nape, senses heady with aftershave. His hand trailed over a furred stomach, delving teasingly close to an apex between strong thighs, before his hand was slapped away.

“What do you mean,  _ everything _ ?” Freddie countered. “So much has happened in the history of the world. You have to be specific.”

“I want to hear it in your own words, how all this came to be. You and me, in this bed, this room, this flat. Just for fun.” That bit was fairly true, but it didn’t stop Roger from vying not to be too painfully obvious. The last thing he needed was for this to all come crashing down because he was oblivious to what in his life had changed.

Freddie shifted around in Roger’s arms until they were face to face, propping his chin on his wrist against the pillows. Roger tucked his hands close to his chest when the distance was a touch too far to justify his slothing limbs, but watching Freddie look upon him with fond amusement was better enough. If it didn’t show in his own eyes, Roger could feel the same sensation swelling his entire body, more than he ever thought possible.

To think he could be forty-four years old and so suddenly in love with a man he’d known for half that time. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Freddie accused lightly. “I’ve got half a mind to think you’re avoiding work today.”

“Tell it as if you were writing a chapter in your autobiography,” Roger insisted, grinning. He was sure that was just the sort of thing the masses would gobble up, in due time.

“You’d take up far more than a single chapter, darling,” Freddie murmured, voice falling to a purr before he righted himself again, and cleared his throat with some animation. “Right! The beginning. As a child, I had humble beginnings in Zanzibar-”

“ _ Fred _ -”

“We worked together.” Freddie swatted at Roger’s shoulder. “In a dreadful, sweltering stall full of second-hand clothes. You were a pretty young thing, a feisty drummer with wild gold locks and a hatred for university. And I, a suffering artist with taste ahead of my time, if you’re anything to go by.”

Roger felt his smile grow to aching, as Freddie punctuated each grand phrase with a sweep of his arms or toss of his head. For all his griping, he certainly loved being the center of attention, even if it was just one person’s.

“We got on well enough - more than well enough - and came to share a flat. We were mates, but I’ll maintain there was something else from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Really?” Roger whispered - worrying a moment he might reveal himself, if Freddie had already told him this before.

“You can’t go around with long blond hair and baby blue eyes and expect no one to notice, love.” Fred winked, and went on. “You have to be careful, of course, and I wasn’t about to out myself to a man who smacked things with wooden sticks as a hobby and an awful temper to boot. Imagine my surprise when you came to me.”

Roger tried not to let his eyes grow too wide. “And what did I say?”

“Your mouth was far too busy to say much of anything,” Freddie offered in a hush tone, as if to truly enchant Roger with the tale for the very first time. “One kiss was confession enough, and that night, I received so many that I felt like a priest.” 

Freddie reached for the pack of smokes, ashtray, and lighter on the nightstand beside him, giving Roger plenty of time to register and recuperate, flushed against all odds.

“Of course you did force out a messy, adorable sweet nothing the next morning,” Freddie said, smiling with the return of a memory that Roger simply did not possess. “Though it wasn’t really  _ nothing _ , given that it brought us here today. And who can blame one of our kind for stammering about? It’s not exactly the brave new world they’ve been heralding, is it?”

“And that was twenty years ago,” Roger punctuated, trying not to let his voice turn too questioning as he tried to remember how long he had been living in that crummy flat with Freddie.

“Twenty-three already, can you believe it?” Freddie lit his cigarette and took a drag, offering the end to Roger as he chuckled. “Soon we’ll be celebrating our silver anniversary as if it’s any better than the last.”

It only took Roger a moment to align the years in his head, but it was rather easy when everything settled into a clean decade. 1970. The same year everything else had come to fruition. Safe to say, it was definitely appropriate. 

Even better, it meant he hadn’t missed a single thing.

“Oh shit, look at the time.” Freddie picked up and promptly dropped the bedside clock back on the table, and spun himself away from the warm contact they had created to stand. “Look what you’ve done, Roger.”

“Me?” he demanded.

“I’m thoroughly debauched and we were supposed to be gone at quarter past. You did this on purpose, didn’t you? Just so you could stay in bed.”

Roger opened his mouth to respond, but Freddie was in too much of a put-upon tizzy, snatching up his towel as he moaned and groaned. “And now I have to shower all over again. You’ll just have to go after me. I better not hear you complain about cold water, you did this to yourself.”

With a final sniff, even as his lips curled at the corners, Freddie sauntered out of the room, leaving Roger alone in bed with a lit cigarette between his fingers. He’d hardly taken a single puff, and with the cherry ashing off in smoking chunks, he figured he was better off stamping it out in the ashtray.

The sound of the shower reached Roger’s ears eventually, and he found some flannel bottoms and a T-shirt to wear while he waited for Freddie to finish bathing. For all he knew, they were Fred’s clothes, but Roger didn’t mind either way. He could have lazed away in bed until it was his turn in the bathroom, but his curiosity had hardly been satisfied. It wasn’t like he could very well ask Freddie to recount every missed moment for him. Roger had seen  _ It’s a Wonderful Life _ , and he knew better than to come off sounding like a madman.

As long as this was, apparently, his own flat, he figured there was no harm in exploring. As he wandered out into the hall again, Roger was struck with familiarity. The place reminded him of 12 Stafford Terrace, in a way; though with only one floor, it wasn’t exactly the same. That first hallway, consisting of their bedroom, the bathroom, and a third door that turned out to be a spare bedroom, branched off into a wider space where a foyer gave way to a modestly sized parlor. 

A large housecat with tawny fur greeted Roger as he turned into the living area, springing up on the arm of the couch with enough agility to have him jump.

“Hello,” he murmured after a moment, almost disbelieving as he reached out to scratched the animal behind the ears. She slinked right out from under his hand, traversing the sofa, an ottoman, and bench seat to perch upon an upright piano of old, lacquered wood.

No drums though, Roger noticed, not that he thought they could fit anywhere here. Maybe there was another room somewhere. Still, it seemed rather odd that they would take up residence in a flat so small. Maybe it was all to keep a low profile.

Across the top of the piano were a handful of framed pictures, some Roger had seen before and others he hadn’t. There were friends and family, but most were him, or Freddie, or both, in far more intimate poses than they had ever managed. Or, more likely, ever allowed a photographer to catch them in, from the timeline he was used to.

He pushed open the piano, the cat peering curiously from the doily she’d chosen as adequate seating. The ivory keys were slightly uneven, yellowed from time and use. An F toward the right had chipped. 

Roger splayed his hand across the middle, and played a simple C major chord. A sour tone sprang from the piano, causing the cat to pounce away, and for Roger to frown - more confused than anything.

It seemed the piano was ever so slightly out of tune.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I can't believe how much traffic and praise this is getting! I thought it was just going to be a dinky little thing that sat in the back of the AO3 tag. Thanks everyone who left kudos and feedback, I really appreciate it. Here's chapter two, I hope you enjoy it just as much. I'm having a lot of fun writing this.

Wherever they were headed, Roger had absolutely no idea, content to let Freddie lead the way (as if he had a choice). Their entwined hands swung back and forth, barring any possible chill from touching Roger. His scarf and gloves certainly helped as well.

“It’s been out of tune for years now, darling,” Freddie explained in regard to the piano, as if Roger should know, and shouldn’t have asked in the first place. Pardon, if he’d never known Freddie Mercury to tolerate a note gone awry.

“You know how expensive that whole business is. But I think after Christmas, we’ll have enough to get it fixed up.” Freddie nodded exuberantly. “And then it will be nothing but beautiful music, and we can throw parties where everyone sings and we all get shit-faced.”

Before Roger could think to ask how funds could ever possibly be a problem, they turned a corner, onto a much busier street where the residential area transitioned into a bustling downtown. Suddenly, Roger felt Freddie’s hand slip away from his, despite the immediate clutch of his own fingers. His lover was too fast, though, and took to crossing his arms, hands pushed into the bends of his elbows.

The surprise bubbling up in his throat disappeared immediately; Roger knew better. There was a reason Freddie kept his private life a secret. There was a reason he was on his deathbed when he finally came clear about his illness. There was a reason he had distanced himself from Jim in public, and even now, there was a reason he could not hold Roger’s hand out in town.

Which just went to break Roger’s heart, and make him want to hold Freddie’s hand more. That line of thinking could not have been any further from missing the point though, and he kept his hands at his sides, eventually slipping them into his coat pockets. 

His first day as a gay man had hit its first bump in the road. One of many, that several men faced over the course of their lives.

Roger would have kept on walking if Freddie hadn’t stopped, a while later, taking a ring of keys to the shop doors beside them. “What devils are we, opening up a consignment boutique hours late! We’ve decimated the British economy, how ever will we live with ourselves?”

Blinking stupidly, Roger took a few steps back, and peered over the striped overhang above the shop.  _ The Emperor's New Clothes _ marched across a beveled sign in scrawling letters, each capital looping under and over the characters that followed. It reminded him of another particular logo that had been very much part of his life for the last two decades.

Roger laughed, awestruck again. “It’s perfect.”

“I’m sure you’d be right pleased if we opened at noon everyday, hm?” Freddie retorted, finally getting the doors open so he could fling himself inside. It was better that he misunderstood, Roger decided, reminding himself that he ought not to let his conscious fascinations manifest where oblivious Fred could hear them.

The interior was decorated just as Roger expected, with exactly the sort of flourish that came natural to Freddie. Circular racks full of second-hand clothes dotted across the considerable space, contained by walls painted burgundy. Freddie at the counter made it picture perfect.

“Quite the pet project this is,” Roger mentioned, thumbing the corduroy sleeve of a jacket he or Freddie had put there, presumably.

Freddie snorted with his head thrown back, which would have been a ghastly noise if Roger weren’t so smitten with him at the moment. “Yes, I suppose you could call our main source of income a pet project.”

Roger felt his brow furrow. “But isn’t-”

“Oh, gosh, it did start out that way, didn’t it? Silly me.” After fiddling about at the till a while longer, Freddie scooped up a few sheets of little stickers that had come from some compartment or another under the counter, and returned to Roger with an imploring look. “Now, be a dear and mark all the new inventory, pretty please?”

Inexperience blared in Roger’s head like a siren spelling his doom. They’d never thrown around the word  _ inventory _ back at Kensington Market (as if the shit they sold could even be considered such), and he certainly didn’t know how to mark whatever applied. He tried to come off clever, though, as opposed to mad, as he pushed the contents of Fred’s hands back against the other man’s chest.

“Can’t you do it, love?” he asked (surprising himself with the earnesty of a title he had thrown around so casually in the past). Scrounging around for a suitable excuse, Roger eventually blurted a pathetic, “I did it last time.”

Waiting for the moment Freddie’s face twisted in some form of confusion, Roger was relieved when he huffed in that  _ oh fine  _ way of his instead. “Dammit, I was hoping you’d forget.”

“Unlikely.” Stealing a quick kiss, Roger sent Freddie on his way, into a back room that had yet to be seen. Left alone in the big store full of clothes, Roger took a deep breath in some effort to prepare himself for the world of retail. 

Within the hour, he taught himself to use the till (feeling very much like an out of touch rockstar with too much money), and by then the shop had filled with a few patrons rifling through the racks. At some point the radio had come on in speakers throughout the place, playing the top hundred tracks of the year, which Roger had already decided his opinion on throughout the months and wasn’t paying very much attention to. Freddie came back and forth, offering more assistance to curious customers than Roger was ready, willing, or able to put forth.

He was just contemplating the likelihood of his being recognized when a woman came to the counter, and dropped an armload of hanger-laden garments on the surface in front of him. 

“I’m all set,” she chirped, offering zero indication that she gave a single shit who he was.

Any amount of factors could have chalked up to that one, and Roger rang her through politely enough, as well as the handful of shoppers that came after her. His face was plastered across their albums as much as anyone of the other three - but Freddie was  _ the _ face, after all, like it or not. There was also the younger generation to consider, who weren’t likely to pour over a band of forty-somethings.

Freddie hung up a few dresses on a rack toward the back of the store, and winked at Roger rather shamelessly before turning to help a customer toward a fitting room. A peculiar thought dawned on Roger, and he realized that Fredd had hardly been recognized either. His funny moustache couldn’t have been so iconic that it turned him into a nobody without it. Had they set up shop on a street full of people who didn’t watch television or listen to music?

“And that was  _ What is Love  _ by Haddaway, settling in at a cool eleven on our countdown.” The radio DJ’s jarring voice interrupted the end of the song, drawing Roger’s eyes toward the closest speaker. “When we come back, Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince with  _ Boom! Shake the Room _ , and the list gets better from there, loves. Thanks for choosing us on this sunny, sunny morning.”

Freddie strode up to the counter, humming the song that had just been playing as an advertisement for Coca Cola crackled over the radio.

“This jumper’s got tears in it, Rog, I can’t believe I put it out for all the world to see,” Freddie chided himself, pulling the hanger from its woolen confines.

“I thought you were at number eleven, Fred,” Roger said - to which his lover scoffed, and rolled his eyes.

Wait a second.

Suddenly Roger felt entirely idiotic. Of course it was fucking different. The whole reason Freddie and the rest of them had picked up in the last three years, sad as it may be, was because of that dreaded dead star factor. No wonder the charts had switched up a bit, the way things were now. For all he knew, they’d hit their ranking a little further up the-

“And what do you suppose I’d sing?” Freddie asked, head tilted coquettishly as he regarded Roger. “A rendition of  _ Don’t Rain on My Parade _ ? Step on Babs’ toes a bit?”

Freddie went on chuckling, but all Roger could do was stand in place, staring. “What?” he eventually uttered dumbly.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen  _ Funny Girl! _ ” Fred exclaimed. “Dear lord, how has this not come up! We’ve got a few changes to make around here, mister.” He wagged his finger playfully.

Things were beginning to click into place, in the absolute worst way. The nonplussed patrons. The chart. The small flat and the out-of-tune piano. All the things that made perfect sense, if you were a middle class bloke who’d never done anything fantastical with your life.

Roger felt absolutely foolish for not thinking about it earlier. Maybe because it was so far from his mind that it seemed an impossible thing to even consider. Now, it made perfect sense - and wasn’t that just the worst part.

Roger licked his lips, and spoke. “Freddie, does the word Queen mean anything to you?”

“As in, her majesty Elizabeth the second?” Freddie answered quickly - too quickly for Roger to handle. “She’s just peachy. Why, did you hear something on the radio?”

Roger couldn’t hear much of anything, but the deafening pulse of his own blood. His eyes flitted around the room as if really seeing it for the first time. A quaint shop in London, where he and Freddie were perfectly capable of working, and walking to, without a mob of people swarming them. A consignment shop that had apparently grown from a pitiful stall at Kensington Market, because that was all they had sustained at the time. No John Deacon, no Brian May, no Roger Taylor.

No Freddie Mercury.

No Queen.

“‘Scuse me,” Roger muttered, moving out from behind the counter. The clothes and customers glazed past him in a blur, and he shouldered his way through the front doors, out into the bright, cool fall weather.

Standing there on the pavement, dozens of passerby breezed by him on their way to work, shop, what have you. No one even batted an eyelash, except maybe to glance curiously at the man undulating in front of a consignment shop, balking, while his heart thudded into his ribcage.

Queen didn’t exist. Roger was a nobody. He had never been around to different countries, or played for hundreds of thousands of people, or made headlines. An entire chapter of musical history had been erased, lyrics and harmonies lost to the universe. It wasn’t even a matter of modesty; Roger would have been an idiot to think he hadn’t affected the world on some substantial scale.

And worse, he realized something even more awful, as an icy grip clenched around his gut.

Freddie was a nobody too.

He had never known the exhilaration of performing. The adoration of the audience, the thrill of their roar. The very thing that got him out of bed in the morning. Even in life, Freddie fancied himself a legend - and he was right. What on earth was he now?

What had Roger done to him?

Suddenly the doors burst open behind him, and the rush of air brought Roger turning in place. There was Freddie, looking alarmed and flabbergasted, like Roger had grown two heads. Wouldn’t be the strangest thing that had happened to him in recent memory.

“What’s wrong with you? What’s the matter?” Freddie demanded rather forcefully. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The irony of the statement sent Roger’s stomach roiling.

“First your episode in the bathroom, now this.” Freddie stepped closer - as much as he was apparently willing to, out in London in broad daylight. Even then, his hands twitched reflexively against his chest, until he shoved them down at his sides altogether.

“You’re really worrying me, Roger.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I…” The last place he ought to be having a crisis was on the street, but Roger wound up breathing hard anyway. He couldn’t even explain it to Freddie. Freddie, who was perfectly happy to live out his life as a mild-mannered store clerk.

There wasn’t even any attempting it. He just sighed, and shook his head. “It’s that damn nightmare, I think it’s stuck with me.” What a piss poor lie.

Freddie didn’t know any better though, and could only believe him. Maybe the look on Roger’s face was enough to forego the self-imposed public etiquette, because next thing he knew, Fred had enveloped him in his arms, hands clutching the back of his head and nape, pressed cheek to cheek.

“Hey, you’re alright,” Freddie whispered, while Roger wished for all the world that he could be honest, somehow. “I understand if you don’t want to tell me, I do. All I can offer instead is that, whatever it was isn’t real, and that you’re okay now. It was just a dream, and I’ll always be there when you wake up.”

Just as Roger’s face began quivering, he managed to rein himself in, hands fisted in the back of Freddie’s shirt. That gentle voice held nothing but sincerity, and affection, more than Roger felt deserving of at the moment. Like he was Freddie’s world, and that was all he could possibly want, or need.

Maybe that was okay, Roger thought, as a fair conclusion sank into his mind. Maybe it didn’t matter what Freddie had missed out on, because he didn’t know any better. He found love, and motivation, all without risking his life. And wasn’t that what everyone was after anyway? If a humble shop and a doting lover made you happy, how was it any different from fame and fortune?

Maybe this was perfect after all. 

“I think I’ll be fine,” Roger answered eventually. He pried himself away, only concerned with Freddie’s anxious glances toward passing Londoners. Their arms lingered together a moment, nearly nose to nose, before Fred stepped away again, maintaining a friendly distance.

“Get as much fresh air as you need,” he stated, already reaching for the door. “Maybe we can do something relaxing tonight. You need some chamomile, my dear. And a hot bath, if you’re willing.”

Roger managed a smile. “Only if you’re joining me.”

Freddie huffed, but looked rather relieved. “I said  _ relaxing _ , not strenuous.”

He was gone a moment later, leaving Roger alone to stare at his own transparent reflection in the glass. He looked just as he always had. Every decision in his life had led to him dressing this way, and cutting his hair this way, his face aging the way it appeared at this very moment. But all those decisions had never existed.

And to hell with them! As long as it meant Freddie was alive and well. Roger found he didn’t need much fresh air at all, and spent a single cigarette in front of the store, before he went back in, and resumed his post at the till.

Still, he found his mind wandering, in the moments between customers, when it was quiet.

It would have been nice if they could have both.

***

That evening, Roger did a very good job pretending he knew which key of Freddie’s went in the door, getting it right on the third try or so, while his lover stood by unaware, yammering on about tea and baths in the indigo dusk.

Roger felt mostly better at that point, settled with the fact that this was the best possible outcome for them, as he linked arms with Freddie for a pleasant and lonely journey home. There was still the hole in his heart, fit for a band of misfits, but Roger convinced himself he could fill it with as many years as Freddie would be alive, and with him. 

A few stores were still open, their bright lights shining in yellow squares up and down the street. A glint of glossy red caught Roger’s eye as they passed on, glancing briefly at a twelve-string suspended in one of the windows.

“Oh, look, Rog, that keyboard’s quite handsome,” Freddie said, flicking his hand in the general direction. “And nicely priced, too. If we got that, we could sell the piano and do away with tuning altogether.”

Roger snorted derisively. “You are  _ not _ getting an electric keyboard.” Not if he had anything to do with it. It was a crime as is that Freddie was relegated to an upright and not his beloved grand.

They happened upon a music store, cluttered with instruments, records, and related paraphernalia. Roger was content to pass on, until he caught sight of something else in the back of the store. Massive, gleaming, and beckoning.

“Hey, let’s stop in here,” Roger said, pulling Freddie with him as he pushed the door open.

“Oh, I see what you like. That big monstrosity in the back.”

Roger gazed with intent upon the fully assembled drum kit, up a step behind a rack of CDs. They were alphabetical, and for one fleeting moment, Roger sought out the letter Q. There wasn’t much there to begin with - certainly not what he was looking for. 

Rounding the drums carefully, he sat at the padded stool, pleased to find himself in familiar territory. There was a pair of worn sticks sitting atop the snare drum, but before he pounded out a single beat, Roger spared a glance at the clerk behind the counter; not everyone enjoyed all the crashing and banging. But the portly man nodded, and the drummer smashed out a quick riff.

“What will you play for me tonight, darling?” Freddie asked, swaying as if to rev up for a dance.

“Something new, I think,” Roger replied. This, he didn’t have to guess on. He was sure Fred hadn’t heard it before, as tragic as that was.

Before he could feel foolish with the choice that first came to him, or acknowledge the warmth in his cheeks, Roger knocked against a cymbal, and launched into it. A fairly simple rhythm, without the voice and instruments to go with it. 

Freddie nodded along in front of him, shifting from foot to foot. Didn’t sing a word. How could he? He didn’t know the very song he’d written all those years ago.

Roger imagined the piano and guitar keeping up. He imagined Freddie’s voice on top of it all, and theirs coming together with Brian’s in harmony. 

If he glanced up over the tom-toms, he could almost picture Freddie at the piano, banging out chords while they all kept up in time. John bouncing with his bass, and Brian serene as ever. Their perfect rhythm, and harmony - not just with the music, but each other. Equally matched and loving every minute of it.

_ Ooh love, ooh lover boy. _

Roger kept up beautifully, but not wanting to go on forever and ever, ended right before Brian’s guitar solo - rather, right where Brian’s guitar solo would have been. A slight perspiration had grown to a sheen on his forehead, and he wiped it away with his sleeve.

Freddie clapped exuberantly before him, as if to bid adieu to the younger man with long feathered black hair in harlequin unitard, who had just been on Roger’s mind. “That was wonderful, Rog! I can’t remember the last time you played that well. What was it?”

“Something I practiced with when I was younger, I suppose,” Roger said, thinking it a clever anti-lie. 

Freddie sighed dreamily. “Took me back to the old days. You make me want to sing right along with you.”

“You ought to!” Roger sat up and put the drumsticks aside - only for a notion to strike him square in the chest. Like the crash of a cymbal. 

Freddie could still sing. He could obviously still play. The piano in the flat was evidence enough that he at least still dabbled. They were a vocalist and a drummer with time to spare.

Roger shot up from his seat, nearly toppling the stool over. “Fred! What if we formed a band?”

He wasn’t sure what he expected - certainly not for Freddie to howl laughing. “With the other blokes at the retirement home? Don’t be ridiculous, darling.”

“I’m serious!” Roger hopped down from the step, and stood squarely in front of Freddie. “You can sing, I can play the drums. We’ve still got it! All we need is a bass player and a guitarist.”

And Roger knew just the pair.

Now, Fred had gone from amused to confused, thankfully without the horror-stricken looks of Roger’s earlier antics. 

“Roger. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re a bit gray these days. We’re not bound to appeal to anyone with our silvering temples and crows feet.”

“Then we’ll appeal to them with our sound.” Roger gripped him by the shoulders. “Please, Fred. I really think we could do it.”

Roger might have been at his insanity overload for the day, because now, Freddie just looked awfully tired. If only he knew! If only he knew what they could have! Surely it wouldn’t be exactly the same, but the fact that they could come so close was too much to pass up.

“Tell you what,” Freddie finally said in a soft voice. “We can start a band, so long as you find can  _ find  _ a band. I suppose you expect me to sing, and you’ll drum, yes? So you’ll have to get a guitar player or two. But until you do, I want no part.”

“Understood!” Roger nearly dove in for a grateful kiss right then, but the clerk was still present, and their conversation thus far hadn’t exactly been normal.

“You sound awfully optimistic for a man whose drum kit has been gathering dust in a storage locker for half a decade,” Freddie grumbled on their way out, trying not to sound to gotten-over, by the tone of his voice.

In the dark, Roger decided it was a perfect time to plant their lips together. “Dust is the least of my worries, love. You just better start practicing your do-re-mis.”

***

“Hello, this is Doctor Brian May.”

“Brian!” Roger felt his heart leap into his throat as that unforgettable drone of a voice came over the phone. “It’s Roger Tay-”

“I’m out at the moment but I’m normally back around five, time permitting. If it’s an urgent matter, you can try me at my office number-”

Roger gritted his teeth, no choice but to wait for the blasted tone. He had been scouring the phone book since waking that morning. Why couldn’t his stupid (soon-to-be) bandmates have been born with uncommon names? At least he’d had the intelligence to start to start looking for “Dr.” after enough time had passed.

“Hi, Brian, it’s me. Roger Taylor. If you remember.” The worst part was not knowing how much interaction he’d had with them now. Roger was shagging Freddie, of all things, who fucking knew what else he’d done to alter history? “I was wondering if you’d like to come round and play together again - or, just play together. Not again. If that’s never happened. I might have you mixed up with someone else, sorry. Anyway, please call me back at this number…”

He rattled off the digits, and hung up with a resounding thud. One down. Not even!  _ Almost  _ one.

Freddie drifted by with a mug of tea, waving idly. Roger waved back and smiled, doing his best not to look like he had been harassing a small percentage of Brian Mays and John Deacons for some time.

“You’ve been at the phone all morning,” Freddie said, pausing to set his hand on his hip. “Didn’t know you were so popular.”

“I’m making business inquiries,” Roger said, batting his eyelashes innocently.

“Oh? What sort of inquiries might those be?”

“The kind you make to guitarists.”

Freddie caught on well enough and harrumphed himself down the hall, eyes rolling. Roger waited until there was the distinct click of a door into its latch before he started plunking out numbers again.

Eventually, after a dozen tries or so, the call went through to a loud commotion on the other end of the line. Roger picked out the distinct sound of blabbering children, in the time it took someone to answer. 

“Hello, this is Veronica,” came the voice on the other end of the line.

Roger had to physically bite his tongue to keep back the  _ how are you _ that came so naturally. “Hi. Is Deaks...um, is John there?”

He heard Veronica call out into the cacophony. Roger was left to wait patiently, to the tune of the rowdy Deacon children. Seemed this new course of events hadn’t affected John’s knack for  _ breeding _ , so to speak. In fact, Roger wondered, based on the sheer volume of noise, if maybe it had even improved.

“John Deacon speaking,” came that funny, familiar voice a few seconds later. Roger couldn’t help but notice he sounded rather chipper - if only because he hadn’t, on most occasions in the last two years.

“Hey, John.” Roger felt his words tumble out of his mouth awkwardly. He had to remember he was talking to a stranger, for all intents and purposes. “I don’t know if you remember me, this is Roger Taylor? Um...we might have met around the time we were going to college.”

“Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.”

As absurd as it was real. “Maybe I heard about you through a shared friend then. Listen, I was wondering if you’d like to join a little band I’m throwing together. I heard you were a very talented bassist, and you that you knew how to fiddle with electronics, and things like that. Would you be interested?”

There was a long pause. Hopefully, John was just taking a moment to consider it before he gave his wholehearted agreement. Roger’s skin buzzed with anticipation.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” John admitted finally, while Roger’s face fell as he stared off toward the wallpaper on the other side of the room. He could just imagine Deaky’s squinty look, lips pressed together thoughtfully.

“Why not?”

“Well, for starters, I haven’t played bass since the seventies. I think you’d want someone a bit more seasoned.”

Roger begged to differ, but he couldn’t exactly pull evidence from what he had grown used to.

“Not to mention, I have other obligations,” John went on. “Job, wife, kids. It’s a bit too late for me to go gallivanting with a band, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t say  _ gallivanting _ ,” Roger said glumly.

“Where are you based, exactly?”

“London.”

“Well there you go. I’m in Leicester, it wouldn’t make sense for me to travel all that way. I’m sure you can find someone far more talented than me if you just take a couple steps down the street.”

“I suppose.”

“Sorry, mate. Good luck and all.” John hung up once and for all. The final click of the receiver rang in Roger’s ears, until he put the phone back in its cradle with a self-pitying sigh.

A bass player more talented than John Deacon. As if such a person existed.

Roger figured he shouldn’t be surprised, though. They found John after Queen had been formed. Now, to him, and Freddie, and Brian, he might as well have never existed either.

But at least he sounded happy.

Suddenly the phone trilled under Roger’s hand, jimmying the table. He yanked it up to his ear without ceremony.

“Hello? John? Brian?”

“Uh…” He didn’t recognize the voice on the other end. “Sorry, I might have the wrong number. Is Freddie Bulsara there?”

Roger slammed the damn thing into its cradle, cutting off the call. Wrong number indeed.

This was hopeless. John was a musicless family man and Brian had gone and gotten his PhD without them. It was like trying to convince his dad to play in a rock band. And years after their zenith to boot.

Whatever amount of time Roger had been calling up John Deacons and miserably staring off into space had apparently been enough time for Freddie to finish his business in the bedroom, returning to find his lover in his sorry state around the same time the cat decided to settle in his lap.

“No luck?” Fred asked, hesitating on the way to the kitchen. Roger shook his head.

“Oh, I’m sorry, love.” Freddie at least sounded genuinely sympathetic. “Maybe you can relive your glory days some other way.”

Roger laughed a little, and shook his head. If only this was all as simple as a mid-life crisis.

Freddie came forward, and set his empty mug next to the phone. “I would be delighted to distract you.”

“Oh, would you?” Freddie’s obvious disdain for the whole effort was almost enough to keep Roger from trying anymore (not that he was very hopeful at this point). But Fred didn’t even know what potential he had. Of course he was disdainful.

Either way, at this point, Roger welcomed distraction. “Could you sing for me? You can even play that wonky piano.”

Freddie had the gall to look a little bashful, but he nodded and smiled anyway. “Do you have something in mind?”

_ Anything you’ve written. _ “A love song, maybe.”

“He wants a love song!” Freddie turned to situate himself at the piano bench, flicking imaginary tails out from under him before pushing open the lid. He played a few tinny chords, humming thoughtfully until he worked himself up to a result.

It was so effortless.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for being cheeky,” he murmured to Roger with a smirk - launching into proper accompaniment with a toss of his head.

_ “You’d think the people would have had enough of silly love songs!”  _ Freddie warbled, causing Roger to fall back against his seat, laughing.  _ “But I look around me and I see it isn’t so.” _

Freddie sang just as Roger knew him to, tilted back as his hands danced across the piano, eyes fluttered shut as he relished every note. He treated his sole listener as he would a crowd of thousands, deserving of all his attention and talent. The only difference might have been his volume, but even Roger couldn’t blame him for that, in a flat with flimsy walls.

He was a natural. Always had been. Roger knew it, even back when all this came to fruition.

_ “I love you,” _ Freddie cooed, letting his whole body tilt in the direction of the chords. _ “I love you.” _

He didn’t repeat the second round of I-love-yous right away, side-eyeing Roger with a particular insistence. It only took the dumb drummer several seconds to take the hint.

_ “I love you,” _ he sang in reply, lips tugged into a grin.  _ “I love you.” _

_ “Ahh, I can’t explain, the feeling’s plain to me, see can’t you see?”  _ Freddie’s gaze moved back to the keys, concentrated as ever. “ _ Ahh, she gave me more, she gave it all to me.” _

Maybe this was alright too, Roger thought while Fred sang to him. Maybe Queen just wasn’t meant to exist, in return for health and prosperity. Maybe all they needed was a voice, and an untuned piano.

Roger decided he could live with that, head propped on his fist, watching his soulmate play his heart out, all for him. If the song wasn’t enough, the look in Freddie’s eyes was all Roger needed to know things were exactly as they should be.

I love you.

I love you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter has weird pacing, it was kind of hard to write. Overall I'm pretty happy with the direction this story is going, though, and I hope you are too (even if it's turned out to be a little predictable lol, I love reading your predictions in the comments).
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, all the kudos, and all the kind words.

“Phone, darling!”

For the second night in a row, Roger had gone to bed fearing he might wake up back where he belonged the next time his eyes were open, only to find those newly familiar white sheets, and Freddie’s back to him. This time, though, he was rather disappointed to find Freddie gone, leaving much to be desired, as far as preferred methods of waking and cozy beds went.

“Hurry, Rog, the kettle’s screaming bloody murder at me!”

Roger got himself up, grumbling all the way. The fact that aggravation had settled neatly into his morning routine meant he had grown quite comfortable in this new reality.

Freddie passed him the parlor phone, a spatula in one hand that he used to wave Roger closer. “I get up early to make breakfast and you’re in bed ‘til all hours of the morning.”

“And I am quite appreciative.” Smiling stupidly, Roger kissed Fred on the tip of his nose - just because he could. “I’ll have some of that tea, if you’d be so kind.”

Freddie flitted back in the kitchen shortly thereafter. Roger allotted himself just enough time to yawn into his sleeve before he put the phone to his ear. “H’llo?”

“Hi, Roger?”

The drummer’s eyes flew wide. All other feeling vacated his body to make room for the big bright breath that swelled in his chest. 

“Brian!” he exclaimed, a grin lighting upon his face for no one to see.

“Wha...how did you know it was me?”

“The sound of your voice, stupid, I’d know it- ah, I mean,” Roger fumbled, fiddling with the knobs on the lid of the piano to keep from growing too self-conscious. Or excited. “Mostly I was just expecting your call. Or hoping for it, actually. Thank you for getting back to me, by the way.”

“...Right,” Brian uttered, in that quietly judgemental way of his. “About that. If you don’t mind me saying, I’m a bit surprised to be hearing from you, after all this time.”

“What? Why? I know it’s been a while but what’s wrong with ringing an old friend once in a while?”

Shit. Was  _ old friend _ even applicable? Their past encounters could have ranged anywhere from brief hello to nasty pub fight. Not that Roger had any chance of saving himself from sounding overzealous now. Giddy and smug. What was he, twenty years old?

There was silence for a moment. Brian took a deep breath on the other end of the line. “Roger, don’t you remember what happened?”

By the sound of his voice, whatever it was seemed to be important enough that Roger  _ should  _ remember. Circumstances weren’t exactly permitting, though.

“Uh, not really,” he tried, lifting his free hand to curl around the receiver’s bulbous bottom. “I’ve had a rather traumatic experience recently, it’s sort of muddled my memory the further back it goes.” 

It wasn’t a  _ lie _ , in some sense.

“Really?” Good thing Brian was just a space doctor, and not a psychologist or anything. Though sometimes he could be an awfully good lie detector. “That’s - well, it’s a lot to forget. That happened, back then.”

“I remember some things. Just not everything.”

“Would you like me to fill you in?”

“Does  _ filling me in _ mean you’re interested in my proposition?”

“I just don’t know, Roger, to be honest. I didn’t exactly expect a call from you, after twenty years. Certainly not the one you left on my answering machine. But, if this is some serendipitous opportunity to right certain wrongs, then I’m willing to do that much.”

Wrongs? What wrongs? “I’d really appreciate that,” Roger blathered.

“I think we ought to speak in person. You could come by my office during my lunch hour. I can give you the address.”

“Sounds good.”

Brian did just that, along with a building, wing, and room number, and Roger retained the information long enough to hang up and jog to the kitchen to jot it down. By then, Freddie was setting two plates of eggs and toast and piping hot mugs at the table.

“Who was that, anyway?” he asked as Roger dropped into his seat, spirited as could be from his literal wake-up call.

“Just the doctor. I set an appointment,” Roger hummed, biting into his toast to avoid elaborating.

Freddie blinked. “For what? A checkup?”

“Mhm.”

Breakfast passed as pleasantly as it possible for a pair of humble forty-somethings smitten with each other, and Roger managed to savor every morsel, and word, without looking at the clock too much. Rushing through his meal wouldn’t change the fact that Brian had very specific time parameters. That still didn’t stop Roger from leaving just a smidge early when it came down to it - if only to make sure he had enough time to get lost if he failed at self-navigation.

“Where’re you going?” Freddie asked from the parlor, moments before Roger got a grip on the doorknob. The cat (whose name he still didn’t know) was nestled in Fred’s arms on the sofa, head and feet disappearing into a swarm of fluff, giving the impression of a fur scarf. 

“Out, to run an errand,” Roger explained, ever-so-careful about his near-lies.

“Oh! I have to stop in the shop, I’ll go with you.” Freddie set the cat on the ground and stood - only to freeze mid-stride when Roger cried  _ no! _

“You can’t,” he blurted, feeling rather foolish for his outburst. If Freddie knew he was off to proposition some  _ random _ astrophysicist about music, that might be the end of the whole endeavor. “I’m getting you a surprise, and you being there would spoil the whole thing.”

Thinking that a rather good near-lie, so good it wasn’t even close a lie at all, Roger straightened, and watched the imaginary gears turn in Freddie’s brain. Eventually, a smile quirked onto his lover’s lips, and he nodded.

“Ah, I see what you’re getting at. This wouldn’t have anything to do with a belated birthday present, would it?”

“That would ruin the surprise, love.” Smiling with all his teeth, Roger saw himself out. All the air in his lungs left him in an exhausted huff, vapor billowing in front of his face. Now he had to figure out just what sort of surprises his other self had been promising Freddie.

With no idea whether they had a car or not, or even if Freddie’s penchant for driving (or lack thereof) had improved, Roger caught a cab to Bloomsbury. Brian’s directions led them to UCL, with its classical columned facade, students roaming the campus, and the occasional meandering professor. 

Professor, Roger realized, as they rumbled down the narrow path slowly. So that’s what had become of Brian May. For some reason, he had been thinking astronaut.

The cabbie left him in front of the building on Roger’s written directions, and he used his wits to help him the rest of the way. He wandered down corridors of lecture halls and classrooms, where professors and presentations droned from inside. It all gave Roger a dreadful case of deja vu. How often he wished to be young again. How often he wished to exclude this part from the story.

He found the correct room eventually, Brian’s cramped little office, adjacent to a large classroom where a lecture was still in session. It wasn’t quite lunch hour yet. Roger couldn’t hear the lesson from outside, but the narrow window allowed him to see the rows of students bored to tears, and the lanky professor in his tweed and slicked hair, scribbling away at the chalkboard.

The office was locked, so Roger had no choice but to stand there and do his best to look like he belonged there. Brian was nowhere to be found. Maybe this was a shared office and lecture space, and he had a class there after lunch. Maybe he was in a meeting. Any number of professorial things Roger couldn’t be bothered to think too hard about. 

After enough putzing around, the door to the classroom beside him opened, and the confined teenagers poured out, rambling and chatting and going in all different directions. Some lingered to ask questions or what have you, and Roger waited until they were all gone to peer into the room. Still no Brian, but he couldn’t bear to feel like an idiot anymore.

“‘Scuse me?” he called from the doorway, while the professor went about erasing the chalkboard with a particular vehemence. “I’m looking for Dr. May, will he be round soon?”

“You’re speaking to him.” The professor dropped the blocky grey eraser, swiped his hands together, and turned around.

Roger nearly gasped.

Certainly the tall twat sporting elbow patches and a perfectly trimmed head of combed and parted hair couldn’t have been  _ guitarist Brian May of international fame and rock stardom _ .

“Oh. It’s you,” the professor uttered in a voice that sounded very much like Brian’s, blinking his eyes, the same shade as Brian’s, slouching his wide shoulders the same way as Brian’s. “Hi, Roger.”

A noise somewhere between a hiss and a whisper wriggled out from Roger’s throat and into the still air. “You cut your hair,” he muttered.

Brian gave him an appropriately skeptical look. “So did you.”

Roger opened his mouth to argue -  _ fifteen years ago!  _ \- only to clamp shut again. Brian couldn’t have known that. This Brian was different, just like Freddie was different. This Brian had outgrown his outrageous hair.

And his guitar.

“Right, sorry,” Roger said, shaking his head before he could get too caught up in himself. With Freddie, there had been years since his death to let details fade for this new reality. He didn’t even look all that different from how he had styled himself before he died. But Brian, Roger had seen only a few days ago. Just as he’d always been, for the last twenty years. This alternative was the most jarring, to say the least.

“It’s been a while,” Brian said, when Roger was silent a little longer that necessary. “How are you?”

A simple question you might ask anyone. A stranger or a good friend. Roger was really hoping to fall into the latter category.

_ “Doin’ alright,”  _ he uttered, almost barely singing, before he could talk himself out of it.

For a second, Brian seemed to smile ( _ ha! _ ) a little, only to duck his head and return to the board to wipe away a stray line of chalk. Keeping busy.

“Why don’t we go into my office, I’ve got chairs a bit more comfortable than all that.” He gestured at the students’ seats lining the room.

Roger nodded and followed Brian into the adjacent office. They sat, a desk between them - and a few more minutes of silence. Roger figured, Brian didn’t know how to talk to a man he hadn’t seen in twenty years. Roger couldn’t relate, to be honest.

“So,” he started, figuring it his own responsibility if he wanted to get the ball rolling, “about ‘filling me in’...”

“You really don’t remember anything?” Brian asked, brow cocked when he met Roger’s gaze again. It was a very familiar expression.

“I remember,” he tried, picking his brain for what might have remained true, “we were in a band called Smile. With Tim.”

Brian nodded.

“I was going for biology around that time,” Roger went on. “I ran a stall at Kensington Market.”

“With Freddie,” Brian added.

“Yes! We lived together, too.”

“Do you still?”

Roger paused. Seemed an odd question to ask someone his age.

Unless Brian knew…

“Yes,” Roger stated, resisting the hesitancy that came with admitting as much.

“I thought I recognized his voice on the phone,” Brian murmured.

“It’s a hard voice to forget,” Roger replied wistfully.

“Do you remember why we split up? Smile, that is.”

“Yeah. But not why we didn’t keep playing.”

Brian sighed, his head resting on his hand, long fingers balanced against his temple. The light coming through the window would have haloed is curls - if he had them, Roger lamented.

“Well, I remember very well.” Brian leaned forward, elbows first. “Some details are a bit hazy but I’ll do my best. We had a pretty good thing going, you and I. We were going to try to find another bassist and vocalist.”

“Right,” Roger said. That much he knew.

“But then, you…” Brian sighed again, and pinched the bridge of his prominent nose. “You got with Freddie, and everything went tits up, you see.”

Roger never expected to hear that phrase out of a man in tweed. Out of Brian, though, it was just a regular Tuesday.

“I suppose you two were really hitting it off,” Brian explained as he relaxed in his chair again. “I guess you really did, if you’re still together now. God, I can’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it back then. I had no fucking clue you were gay, Roger.”

Roger scoffed.  _ Neither did I. _

“We were getting popular enough that another attempt might have led to bigger and better things. We just needed a whole band. I was almost ready to give up my studies, but you called the whole thing off.”

“What?” Roger’s eyes widened. “Why?”

Brian stared at him, truly shocked (and maybe a little annoyed) that the man across from him didn’t remember a thing. Roger couldn’t blame him. He doubted astrophysics professors believed in wish superstitions.

“You chose Freddie over the music,” Brian pronounced, off again before Roger could let it sink in. “You knew you couldn’t have a prolific career in the industry,  _ and _ a boyfriend, or lover, or whatever you wanted to call it. So you chose him, and we went our separate ways.”

Roger couldn’t believe it - well, that wasn’t true. It made sense. He couldn’t think of a single rockstar from back then who had come out before they got famous. Even if you didn’t come out, there was no way to hide a live-in boyfriend from the paparazzi.

Still. Roger knew that brash twenty-year-old he had once been all too well. Or though he had, anyway. Had he really been compassionate enough to choose Freddie over music?

“Just like that?” he mumbled - almost to himself.

“We had quite the row,” Brian said, almost amused, if not for the sad look in his eyes. Different from the sad look Roger had gotten used to. Not as world weary as it was regretful. “Rightly so, but...I said some awful things, Roger. About you, and Freddie. Some people would probably think I was right in what I said, but I don’t think so. And that’s mostly why I asked you to come here. You deserve an apology in person.”

A row between two young men in the seventies about breaking up a band to run off with another man? Roger could imagine the sorts of words Brian might have thrown at him.

“It’s okay, you’re forgiven,” he offered easily - maybe too easily, but Roger couldn’t be bothered to waste his precious time drawing this discussion out.

“Really?”

“It’s been two decades, Brian, I’m long over it. Forgive and forget. Bygones, and all that.” There was a set of Newton balls on Brian’s desk, and Roger flicked the one on the end for no other reason than he didn’t know what to do with his hands, and he wanted this conversation to lighten up.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Brian said.

“Tell you what, though,” Roger stated, eyes rising back to that familiar face. “I’d forgive you even more if you played guitar in my new band.”

Brian sighed and lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “Roger, what exactly are you trying to do? Relive our glory days? It’s not worth the effort.”

“Why does everyone keep asking that?” Roger grumbled.

“Honestly, I’d love to be in a band again. But the cards are stacked against me.” Brian spread his long arms, motioning to all and everything around them. “I’m a teacher in my forties, and if I have a single hour to spare at any given moment, it’s spent grading. I haven’t played for anyone but myself in years. No one’s very much interested in boring old me anymore. I can hardly get my class to stay a minute past the schedule.”

“Well, I’m very much interested in you,” Roger stated, rising to his feet. “And you were always boring, so I’m used to it.”

Brian gave him another look that made Roger wonder if he was being too personal again. Now, though, he hardly cared.

“It’s not about my glory days.” Not his own anyway. “I just want to play again, and we had a good thing going. I already have a vocalist, and we can manage without a bassist. All I’m asking for is one gig. We rehearse for a while, perform, and if you’re still convinced you’ve amounted to a college professor and nothing more, then that’s it. One last hurrah.”

Brian appeared unconvinced, but his resolve seemed to waver. “Who’s your vocalist?”

Roger took a deep breath. “That would be Freddie.”

“He can  _ sing _ ?”

“Of course he can sing! Don’t tell me you never heard him before.”

Brian stared incredulously. “Why don’t you just sing, Roger?”

“Because Freddie is singing!” Roger knew he could suffer being just the drummer this one time. “And he’s very good. You remember he can play piano too, don’t you?”

“I remember a whole lot of caterwauling.”

“Listen, Brian. You’re making up for what happened between us by apologizing. I’m making up for it by reviving the band you wanted. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“We embarrass ourselves in front of many people,” Brian stated.

“We won’t. I promise. Maybe you could just feel it out, alright? We’ll meet up and we can just test the waters. Alright?”

There was another round of silence, while Brian adjusted and thought about it. Presumably. Roger had never been very good at gauging his responses until they came out of that thin mouth.

“I will put my best foot forward,” Brian announced, rising to stand with Roger, and topping him out, as usual. “I’ll meet with you and Freddie to see how things go. But if at any point I feel the need to back out, I reserve the right to do just that.”

Roger grinned. “Understood.” As if he’d let Brian out that easy. Couldn’t exactly clue him into that though.

They shook on it once and for all, as a heady, gleeful feeling expanded in Roger’s chest. Brian, Roger, and Freddie, all part of an unknown band. As if they’d never done that before.

***

At about half-past six the following day, Freddie came around the corner and up the steps to the flat from a grocery run. From the look on his face, he hardly expected to find Roger shifting from foot to foot on the stoop.

“What are you doing out here? It’s freezing,” Freddie proclaimed, even as he pushed his heavy paper bag into Roger’s arms.

“Just having a smoke,” the antsy drummer explained, trying not to let his nerves seep into his voice, as he flicked the remnants of his spent cigarette over the railing. “Listen, I have to tell you something-”

“On the front steps?” Freddie interjected. “You’re not trying to be romantic, are you? Let’s go inside.”

Freddie tried to side-step him, but Roger used his armload as a barrier from the door. “It’s about what’s inside.”

“Oh no.” Freddie crossed his arms. “What did you buy this time?”

“Nothing!” Roger might have laughed if his heart wasn’t making some attempt to climb into his throat. Just him and Freddie, the other trying to be coy. Stupid moments like these he wished to savor forever.

But not with a mission in mind.

“I didn’t buy anything. I just want you to prepare you...for...”

A quiet twanging reached Roger’s ears, some kind of minor scale rising and falling. Freddie’s face twisted before him, picking up the sound too. Some kind of string getting plucked.

Roger had an idea what string.

Before he could stop him, Freddie had shouldered past, into his very own home, which he had every right to. Roger scrambled to follow, setting the grocery bag down in the foyer to keep his hands free. He nearly ran straight into Freddie’s back when he stood, where his lover had stopped to stare at the stranger occupying the parlor.

Brian had been strumming away at his acoustic guitar, only to stop when the door opened. Now he glanced between Roger and Freddie, his instrument still poised on his lap, the cat rubbing at the leg of his trousers.

No one said anything for a long time. Roger figured this could go one of two ways. One, Freddie didn’t recognize or remember Brian, and would ask who he was. Roger could reintroduce them and get on with his brilliant plan. Or, Freddie remembered Brian quite well, and was still angry about past incidents that Roger couldn’t be bothered to care about.

Freddie turned to Roger slowly, a tight, cross expression writ across his face, that Roger had yet to see in the last few days. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

So it was the latter.

“Fred, you remember Brian,” Roger tried, sidling up to his lover to convey his loyalties  _ somehow _ . “He has something he’d like to tell you.”

“Oh, right.” Brian stood up, guitar at his side. The cat slinked between his ankles in figure eights. “Freddie, I know the last time we saw each other, it was on bad terms. Shit terms, really, and I was an absolute arse to have said the things I did.”

“I agree with you so far,” Freddie spat.

“But I’d like to apologize. I really would. I was young and immature and upset but I was wrong to call you a - well, you know. I ought not to repeat it. I hope you can-”

“Apology accepted.” Freddie turned to Roger again. “Can he go now?”

“He’s not leaving,” Roger replied. “He’s our guitarist.”

Freddie’s eyes flew wide. “Excuse me?”

“You said to find a guitar player or two.” Roger smiled, though it felt more like a grimace on his face, as he stepped as far away as he was willing to gesture to Brian. “Well I found one. Two was not a requirement, and I know for a fact this one is very good.”

“Thank you,” Brian murmured.

“Are you on about that band shit again?” Freddie groaned and slapped a hand to his forehead. “I wasn’t serious, Roger! I didn’t think you’d actually drag someone else into this.”

“Then you shouldn’t have said you’d do it.”

“Did you convince him to do this?” Freddie demanded of Brian. “Steal my lover away to fuel some mid-life crisis adventure? Steal my cat while you’re at it too?”

“What? No,” Brian answered, nudging the cat away with his shoe as if to prove his point. “Roger came to me. He’s very passionate about all this.”

“I told you, Fred, we could be good.” Roger faced his lover head-on, even as Freddie faced him back with a chilly expression. “And the only way to find out whether we are or aren’t is to do it.”

“That ship set sail, Roger,” Freddie insisted. “Look at us. We’re past our prime. If there was ever a time, it’s gone.”

“Rubbish.” Roger was nearly horrified. The thought of Freddie Mercury thinking himself too old to perform. He used to brag about rolling on stage in a wheelchair.

Or, some other version of him had. A million years ago.

“You  _ are _ prime,” Roger went on, driving force into every word as he reached to take Freddie’s hands. “And with you, so am I. Every day I’m with you like this is the prime of my life.”

Perhaps it was a disservice to both of his wives, but that hardly mattered. Wherever Dominique and Debbie were now, it was probably with men who were good, and never thought about other women when they shouldn’t. Not that Roger could even begin to think about anyone but Freddie at that very moment, expression softening with every word, against his will. Freddie had quite the resolve but Roger was sure he knew just how to break it.

“We’ve been together in so many ways, Fred,” he murmured - more ways than Freddie even knew! “This is just one more. It’s you and me against the world, don’t let this be the time the world wins.”

“You’re trouble,” Freddie bit out, shaking his head, bent toward the floor. For a moment Roger thought he’d really upset him - but then his lover laughed, as derisive as it might have sounded. “Nothing but trouble. I really did myself in staying with you, didn’t I?”

“I’ll let up, if you’re sure,” Roger said, nudging closer to make sure Freddie wasn’t actually disgusted with him.

“Not sure enough to make you let up.” Freddie met Roger’s gaze with a particular fondness, the kind Roger was still getting used to receiving. 

“I’ll tolerate that loathsome creature in the corner and sing for your little band. If you really want me to.”

“ _ Our _ band, Fred. God, I love you so much.” Without warning, notice, breath, or much of anything really, Roger swooped forward and slotted their lips together. Freddie stumbled under his admittedly eager force, but met him all the same, hands rising to clutch either side of Roger’s face.

It took a distinct cough for them to separate, just a bit bashful under Brian’s scrutiny. Roger had really subjected him to that whole display, hadn’t he? At least it wasn’t his old Brian.

“Well, good, everything’s settled,” the good professor said, pulling at his shirt collar.  “I suppose we’re a band now, aren’t we?”

“Hardly.” Freddie snorted. “We don’t have a name, songs, no performances lined up. Roger’s drums are still packed away in storage-”

“A name’s a good place to start,” Roger offered. He had one in mind, but he couldn’t exactly force it. Queen had been Freddie’s baby, along with the logo, the arms, the everything…

“I’m inclined toward something sort of royal sounding…” he tried, feigning thoughtfulness.

“Well Prince already exists,” Freddie said.

“I sort of like the idea of a title like that though.”

“King...Kings of...what? Something or other.” Brian shrugged.

“It doesn’t have to be  _ of _ anything. I like the idea of a title by itself.”

“Well this is all your idea in the first place, Roger, you ought to come up with the name,” Freddie stated.

“I’m trying!”

“Duke, lord, count.” Freddie rattled off titles at random. “Viscount, baron, baroness, queen-”

“Ah!” Roger snapped his fingers as if he was doing this all for the first time. “I quite like that.”

Freddie thought a moment, brow furrowed as he ran through his last statement. “Queen?”

“I think it has a nice ring to it.” Roger smiled, trying not to come up too hopeful. “Good idea, Fred.”

“Queen,” Brian repeated. “Don’t you think that’s...I dunno. A bit gay?”

That was probably the last possible thing he should have ever said in Freddie’s presence, who turned to level a glare even icier than when he walked in to find the apparent enemy in his own home.

Brian balked. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just that you might give people the wrong idea.”

“That we're gay?” Freddie asked.

“No, I just- I don’t know if you’re out or not-”

“What’s anything got to do with being gay, Brian? Is her royal majesty gay?” Roger demanded, delighted to hop on Freddie’s bandwagon (even at Brian’s expense - better or worse, he couldn’t tell).

“No, of course not.”

“Gay or not, I like the name too,” Freddie decided, crossing his arms (while Roger did his very best not to holler in celebration). “And if you’re afraid of coming off as such, Mr. May, we are perfectly capable of finding ourselves another guitarist.”

That went a little further than Roger intended, and he steeled himself in preparation to convince Brian to stay.

“It’s doctor actually.” Brian set his jaw, and sat back down. “And I am perfectly happy with the name. I’m staying.”

“Then it’s settled,” Freddie declared. “We got the most trivial bit of business out of the way.”

Not trivial to Roger, though, who was having trouble not beaming ear to ear. Perhaps he should have let the name come more naturally, but who cared? They had it. Brian, Freddie and he were all Queen again, just as it should be.

Now, they just needed the music.


End file.
